


Stating the Obvious

by EllaStorm



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Road Trip, i'm not even sorry, maybe a fix-it-fic of sorts, mentions of Ms Grundy, mentions of angst-ridden periods of not talking to each other, post episode 4, there's an Oscar Wilde quote in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: The drive-in has closed, Ms Grundy is gone. Both Archie and Jughead struggle to put themselves back together. They sew their wounds shut on the road, under stars and on the loading space of an old pick-up truck long after sunset. As they're looking at their perfect scars they figure a few things out.





	Stating the Obvious

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a shout-out to the truly amazing @SandraMorningstar who lent me her laptop and waited patiently for me to finish this when my fingers were itching and I needed to write. I love you.
> 
> This story is entirely Cole Sprouse's and KJ Apa's fault, who have personally victimised me on multiple occasions.

The pick-up truck is standing there, at the side of the road, when Jughead leaves the drive-in for the last time in the Saturday morning sun. It’s light brown-ish, bulky and rusty around the edges, the old diesel motor emitting stinking clouds of grey; and it’s the most beautiful thing Jughead has seen all week.

Archie’s red hair is gleaming in the light as he leans out of the window. There isn’t really a smile on his face, and Jughead can’t blame him, not at all, not after what Betty texted him in the middle of the night; but then, there isn’t a smile on _his_ face either, only a shallow ache in his stomach.

He thinks a few things he almost says, walking up to the truck, towards Archie’s non-smile, things like _I’m sorry about Ms Grundy._ Things like _It is for the better._

_It’s definitely for the better._

“Hey”, he says as he reaches the car. He manages to meet Archie’s eyes and Archie doesn’t look away. “What are you doing here?”

It’s a superfluous question, and Archie’s answer is going to be equally superfluous, but this has been a ritual between them forever, stating the obvious, and maybe, Jughead thinks, that’s not so bad. It’s just a confirmation of things they both know exist, after all. It’s honest.

“I kinda had a feeling you wouldn’t leave before sunrise. Spend a few more hours at the drive-in, before-” He trails off and throws Jughead’s rucksack a look. “Overnight bag?”

Jughead nods. “That. Yeah. And. You know. Memorabilia.”

The corners of Archie’s mouth curl slightly upwards, but there’s still sadness in his eyes. “I know, this is a few weeks late. But do you wanna – you know?”

“Start our own personal re-enactment of _On The Road_?”

Archie doesn’t say anything, but his whole demeanour screams vulnerability, from his slight frown to the hunch of his shoulders, like he’s afraid that Jughead might actually say no, and Jughead climbs into the shotgun seat without any further consideration.

His rucksack flies into the backseat, and Archie is smiling, really smiling at him for a moment or two, which makes something inside Jughead’s heart flutter that he had thought buried under the prospective rubble of the Twilight Drive-In, beneath the remnants of all he had been clinging on to.

It feels like healing, driving off like that with Archie in the driver’s seat, as if the broken middle line of the fleeing street might mend their aching wounds like stitches, leaving behind new flesh and scar tissue that hurts only a little bit.

 

***

 

They stop in a field.

Jughead doesn’t know where they are, if they’re even in the same state any more. They must have been driving for seven, eight hours, only interrupted by three short breaks at rest stops. The air is cooler than he expected when he climbs out and stretches his sore limbs, but summer is over and the sun is already crawling towards the horizon, colouring the sky in shades of orange and red.

“Help me with the blankets?” Archie says from the other side of the truck, and Jughead follows his voice and takes a bunch of woollen fabric from his hands.

They’ve done this before, together, last summer, and Jughead’s arms remember the movements of putting the blankets up on the loading space, lining it out with warmth and comfort, until they’re both content with the result. Their shoes are thrown to the side, and then they’re sitting side by side, leaning against the driver’s cabin with their backs, a tall bottle of coke and two bags of tortilla chips between them that Archie rips open with nimble fingers.

They chew in silence for a while, and Jughead realizes that they haven’t talked a lot during the drive, even though it hasn’t felt like it. Their silence is comfortable now, more like an ongoing conversation in between words, not like in July, not like when Ms Grundy was still there. He looks at Archie over their snacks, and finds Archie looking back at him with a thoughtful expression, before he opens his mouth to speak.

“Ms Grundy is gone. Left. We…” He broke off. “It’s better this way.”

Jughead doesn’t tell him about Betty’s texts, about how he knows that it wasn’t Ms Grundy’s decision to leave, just nods. “It is.” He looks down at the half-empty bag of chips between them, and then back up into Archie’s face, and there’s that terrible vulnerability again, clawing its way through Jughead’s insides, wrenching words from his throat. “I’m sorry, Archie. You were… I can’t speak for her, but it was real, for you.”

Archie gives him a weak smile. “I keep thinking that…it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. I’m- well. I’m glad about it. But it also scares me. I… I feel like I should be _feeling_ more, you know? More pain. Or, whatever.“

Jughead shakes his head. “Love and infatuation are really difficult to keep apart sometimes, Archie. And when that happens, when you get them mixed up, you only know for sure whether it was one or the other once it’s over.”

He expects Archie to call him out on his cynicism, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes a swig of the coke and they’re back to companionable silence.

 

***

 

When they do finally lie down to sleep it’s well after 11 pm, and the stars are brightening up the cool darkness over their heads, supplanted by a half-eaten moon to their right.

Jughead is looking up, not quite ready to drift off yet, figuring out patterns and connections and trying to think of names for the spaces between the stars, when Archie chuckles softly beside him.

“What is it?” Jughead asks, without turning his head.

“I just remembered when we did this last year, and you were stuck in a desperate fight against mosquitos seventy percent of the time.”

“Don’t even joke about that. It was a battle to the death. Them or me.”

“Maybe your blood is sweeter than mine.” It shouldn’t sound like a compliment, but it’s tender, and it does.

Jughead huffs. “There aren’t any mosquitos now, though. I think I’m actually grateful for the delay, just because of that.”

For a few seconds Archie doesn’t say a word.

“When we weren’t talking this summer, it hurt like hell.”

That sentence does make Jughead turn his face to the side. Archie is looking at him, has been looking at him for a while, maybe, watched him watching the stars, and Jughead doesn’t know what to make of the sudden warmth the thought sparks in his stomach.

“It must be love then,” he gives back, thoughtlessly, a small smile on his lips, and then his heart jumps into his throat, because he didn’t mean it to sound like _that,_ and Archie’s expression has contracted a small edge of shock; but it’s too late to take it back now, the words are caught in between them, expanding with each passing moment and taking up space that shouldn’t be there at all.

Finally, Archie breaks the silence. The shock has gone out of his eyes, and left something behind that looks very soft and maybe also a little frightened. “Jughead, I don’t – I never wanna go back to not talking to you. Ever.”

Jughead nods, and tries to not feel the slight twinge of disappointment that somehow snuck up on him when he hadn’t been looking, and that he can’t quite place. Or justify.

“But…” Archie continues – and now he _definitely_ looks a little scared. “I want to… Do something. I just – I don’t know what will come of it and I don’t want it to follow us around, if it’s not…” He trails off.

Jughead turns towards him with his whole body and his hand finds Archie’s shoulder through the blanket of its own accord. “We’re never going back to July, Archie. I promise.”

Archie nods. He has the look on his face that he usually wears right before the beginning of an important football match, and then he moves in, slowly, slow enough to give Jughead all the time in the world to pull away. But Jughead doesn’t, because some part of him has expected this, has expected it for a while, despite evidence to the contrary; and so, when Archie’s lips meet his, confident and soft, he’s not surprised so much at the fact that this is happening, but more at how his skin lights up beneath the touch, how that empty space between his lungs gets filled with brightness.

He kisses back, because he needs to keep this feeling inside him, kisses back maybe a little more desperately than one should when one is having his first kiss; but this is _Jughead’s_ first kiss, not anyone else’s, and in all the books he’s read desperation and love were always kind of the same thing anyway.

Archie makes a small, surprised noise, because Jughead angles his head, lets a little bit of tongue slip in. It doesn’t take him long to catch up, though; and then he is, in classical Archie fashion, on top of the game again – or in this case, on top of Jughead, blankets off and away in a single, decisive swoop, kissing him like he’s winning a race, teeth and tongue and no prisoners taken. It’s perfect in the same way sitting in a booth at Pop’s on a weeknight was, before Jason, before Ms Grundy, chocolate milkshakes in their hands and not a thing to worry about in the whole wide world; and Jughead wonders, really wonders for a moment, why people call this _losing one’s innocence,_ when it feels just the opposite.

A hand grabs Jughead’s hat and pulls it off him, takes that strange talisman of protection away, but it doesn’t upset him, because the hand comes back, cards fingers through his hair, and Jughead sighs at the sensation. The hand tugs, ever so slightly, eliciting another sigh, and Archie pulls out of the kiss for a moment. His face above Jughead’s is immersed in shadows, shadows the moonlight isn’t quite bright enough to cleave through, but Jughead knows that Archie’s cheeks must be pink, his pupils wide, his mouth red – and in the wake of a startling half-groan slipping over his lips Jughead notices, belatedly, that he’s hard in his jeans.

He’s quite sure that Archie has just had the same realisation, because his breath has quickened considerably. They’re still looking at each other’s silhouette in the darkness, and Jughead can’t tell if he’s scared or not.

“If you want this to end here…” Archie breathes.

“I don’t,” Jughead retorts.

Archie nods, once, twice; then he’s pulling away, sitting up, and Jughead gets confused for a second, confused whether maybe _Archie_ wanted to end this here; but there’s fabric being pulled off of Archie’s form only a second later, a hoodie and a shirt, and then jeans. His skin is a lot paler in the moonlight, his hair darker; and within a moment Jughead is sitting up, too, strips off his pullover and t-shirt, hair falling into his eyes. The cool night air makes him shiver, but then he looks over at Archie who’s leaning against the driver’s cabin, looking back at him, and the shiver turns into something else. He quickly gets up on his feet and takes his jeans off, but leaves his socks and boxer briefs on, because it _is_ kind of cold, before he moves.

The truck creaks under his weight, and then he’s standing right before Archie, moonlight on skin, not a single coherent thought left in his head. A hand is being stretched out towards him, and Jughead takes it, lets himself be pulled into Archie’s lap, knees pressed to the sides of Archie’s thighs, surprised at how warm Archie’s palms are on his shoulder blades. Their lips meet, and when Archie’s hands start exploring the flat plains of Jughead’s back they leave only warmth behind, eradicating the cold night breeze from his consciousness. Jughead takes Archie’s face in hand, carefully, feels the bones and the skin and the stubble, and his hips come down on a grind, catching them both by surprise, interrupting their kiss.

“I want to touch you,” Archie whispers, a warm stream of breath against Jughead’s lips; and Jughead nods, because he wants that, too, wants it more than he ever thought he would.

Archie’s right hand travels over Jughead’s side, down between them, where they’re both hard in their pants, and his first touch is electrifying enough that Jughead’s eyes fall shut and his head falls back. Archie’s mouth is there, immediately, leaves a searing hot, mind-wrecking trail from Jughead’s jaw right to his collarbone, his left hand on Jughead’s spine, stabilising him, while his right gets more reckless, pulling the fabric of Jughead’s boxer briefs down and touching him again with nothing in between. It’s jarringly blissful, and Jughead shoves his own hand down, wants to do that to Archie, too, because if he’s losing his mind here, tonight, he needs Archie there with him.

His fingers brush Archie’s chest on the way, and Archie halts, a sharp gust of breath at Jughead’s shoulder as the fingers drift lower and find hard flesh. It’s strange at first, the angle is wrong, and there’s not enough wetness there to make it pleasurable in the long run, so Jughead pulls away and licks a stripe of spit onto his hand before he tries again, makes Archie suck in his breath at the first upward strokes; and after a few seconds there’s familiarity there, because over all it’s really not that different from doing it on himself.

Archie’s right hand and his mouth disappear for a moment, and Jughead realizes that Archie has followed his lead only when his hand comes back spit-slick and his mouth pulls at Jughead’s bottom lip. They kiss and don’t speak, chasing their relief together, and it doesn’t really take that long, because they’re still sixteen, after all, and the newness, the other-ness of this makes it impossible for them to last. Archie groans deep in his throat when he comes, shifting muscles and a burst of heat between them, and Jughead buries his hand in his hair and takes the noise from his lips, swallows it down, moments before he’s gone, too.

They still their movements, but they don’t break apart, not quite yet, despite the stickiness and the fact that the air around them is slowly losing heat, getting cold.

“Isn’t this usually the moment when somebody says something unbearably romantic?” Jughead asks into the space separating their mouths, and it’s only half a joke.

He can almost taste Archie’s slow smile on his lips. “For example?”

“Hm. Dunno. Not exactly my genre.”

One of Archie’s fingers strokes Jughead’s cheek then, teasing but gentle. “And I always thought you had a literary reference for everything.”

Jughead leans into the touch, and his hand finds Archie’s moonlit shoulder, starts drawing invisible lines on skin. “ _The world is changed, because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history,”_ he says, very quietly and in spite of himself.

It’s just a sentence from an old book, a superfluous reference that randomly slipped into Jughead’s mind, one more instance of stating the obvious, but when Archie surges up and kisses him, a wildfire on his lips, Jughead thinks that – like all obvious things – it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I quoted THAT line from "The Picture Of Dorian Gray". I know.


End file.
